In many Muslim cultures, when you want to ask them how they’re doing, you ask: in Arabic, Kayf haal-ik? or, in Persian, Haal-e shomaa chetoreh? How is your haal? What is this haal that you inquire about? It is the transient state of one’s heart. In reality, we ask, “How is your heart doing at this very moment, at this breath?” When I ask, “How are you?” that is really what I want to know. ~ http://www.onbeing.org/blog/the-disease-of-being-busy/7023

Its easy to ask. It’s hard to answer. Like most people, I often ask “How are you?” as a common courtesy to friends, acquaintances, strangers even. But sometimes, on occasion when I am feeling calm and slow and thoughtful, I really want to know. I ask, and wait. The typical response is quick and deflective. Its easy to be curious. Its hard to answer with clarity.

To reframe the question in regard to this very moment, this millisecond, this breath opens up the question in a way I find helpful. It acknowledges the natural flux of the human experience. We are moody. We are ever-changing. We make attempts to alter our moods as we deem necessary. Trying to mold our experience into understandable bite-sized terms or what we think it should be.

I woke this morning feeling antsy yet lazy. Not a good combination for well being. I sense and immediately hate my own internal conflict. Why is its even there is unclear. There is a push and pull of opposite desires that fills my heart. On many fronts. I pause. I can actually feel the pressure in my chest. Something in me wants to cry while my mind races to remind me that life is good. And it is. It’s really good. So why? Why does sadness knock when we are trying to slip out the door? Or maybe the question is, why do I try to slip out the door when sadness is knocking?

The transient state of ones heart. It bowls us over. It keeps us from that solid feeling that looks so good in the busy world. We want to feel we got this. We want people to see us and know we got this. We want to be strong. And yet… strength may be misunderstood. Maybe there are as many types of strength as there are Eskimo words for snow. There is strength in holding on and there is strength in letting go. There is strength in pushing through and there is strength in allowing unwelcome emotions to wash over you.

“There is no crying in baseball” echoes inside us. It’s easy to say. It’s hard to live by when tears are burning your eyes. Is it strength that pushes those tears back inside? Or is it fear? Is it strength to let them roll while you continue the game – even if you lose? Or is that weakness? And I have to wonder, whats so bad about weakness? Some of my most deeply bonding moments in life happened when I felt weak, and someone simply let me. Hating myself every minute of it while confusingly and simultaneously feeling grateful, so very grateful that I could just be weak.

The transient state of ones heart deserves some acknowledgement, some respect. For its importance, its necessity, its normalcy in our ever-changing, moment-by-moment, life-is-long-but-too-short, Im-so-busy, but-I-got-this, life.

Every language shares the gift of allowing us to insult one another. I was recently taught a nasty, degrading Armenian term. Yet, as a non-Armenian speaking person, I have no idea which member of your family I would be insulting. So, essentially, it’s pointless to even try. Learning a new word is valueless without ownership of it’s meaning.

In my ADD-infused half-read article fashion, I stumbled across a word that caught my attention. It was new to me. But I wanted it. Prolepses is a figure of speech meaning “‘the representation or assumption of a future act or development as if already exists,” as in: “he was a dead man when he entered.” It is used in literature to direct the story. It is used in trial law to pre-empt a counter argument. In daily life, the word illustrates how we humans like to believe we know what’s about to happen. We crave the illusion of knowing how every moment will turn out. It makes us feel powerful. “I knew that was going to happen!” We smile and pat ourselves on the back for calling out the foreshadowing in our lives. I, for one, know some real proleptic mother fuckers.

There are times when two words just should not live next to one another. Like moving in next to your in-laws, it will color the relationship a dirty shade of gray. The term “Renegotiating support” hits hard in this capacity.

SUPPORT: to bear all or part of the weight of; hold up.

Columns, walls, and foundations are the obvious support systems in an architectural structure. Also, a beam can support another beam. So, to renegotiate support here could be preemptive of watching something fall and crumble. The prolepsis seems naked and clear.

And yet, the assumption of meaning really depends on whether you are the one needing or giving the support. The column can stand alone. But the structure needs support to stand. For her, there is a dependence and need of support for survival. Until, that is, she can balance and stand on her own.

Language can be used to educate, to connect, to heal, to wound. Being proleptic isn’t all bad. In fact there can be beauty in anticipating how it will all play out. And yet, like Alice through the looking glass, we need to determine if we are the narrator of our experience, or the creator.

~JRB

]]>https://jennbenn18.wordpress.com/2017/12/23/prolepsis-sees-you-coming/feed/0jennbenn18alice_door-9886522b01ac0f5914347148c9ba2687d17d1a3f-s900-c85Your hatred of me is disappointing.https://jennbenn18.wordpress.com/2017/05/23/your-hatred-of-me-is-disappointing/
https://jennbenn18.wordpress.com/2017/05/23/your-hatred-of-me-is-disappointing/#respondWed, 24 May 2017 04:52:49 +0000http://jennbenn18.wordpress.com/?p=2125Continue reading →]]>Your hatred of me is disappointing. I thought you could be better than this. I thought you could take your balled up broken heart and walk it home. I thought you’d want to be true to your true desires and find the you you really are. The free you. The fire sign I read about in the magazines. Why did I think you’d be that guy? If you were, you wouldn’t be the guy I used to love. Somehow I thought you’d be the man I wanted after I left. How fucked up is that? If you had found that self, the self you needed to love and have loved, then you would finally be able to stop throwing anger at me. But you dont want that do you? You want to control with your rage. And it worked for a moment today. I finally raged back. And I think I heard you smile over the phone, staring at your computer, and thinking that you got this.

Your hatred of me is disappointing. With your emblematic skinny jeans and Abbot Kinney shoes. And your 5 minute wife who makes sure your life looks spotless. She means well. I know. And yet my world is in your hands when my babies are in your house. Don’t you see? To hate me is poison to them. To want me to hate you back is a trickle of hot blood that stains their skin. Asking them to endure hatred boiling from the source of their love is unconscionable. I dont blame you if you want to believe my disappointment is meaningless. And my disappointment in you may make you hate me. Still, I can hear the voices they can only whisper and I know, without a doubt, that they need us to bring love like a fog into their world.

]]>https://jennbenn18.wordpress.com/2017/05/23/your-hatred-of-me-is-disappointing/feed/0jennbenn18I know why he barkshttps://jennbenn18.wordpress.com/2016/07/17/i-know-why-he-barks/
https://jennbenn18.wordpress.com/2016/07/17/i-know-why-he-barks/#respondMon, 18 Jul 2016 03:53:11 +0000http://jennbenn18.wordpress.com/?p=1891Continue reading →]]>Ben wants to please. He really does. Even as he barks – and just so you know, his bark is some kind of pitchy piercing octave that is ultra and immediately annoying to me, so my patience when he barks does not match my depth of understanding – even as he barks he looks at me with apologetic eyes and downturned head, knowing mama is not pleased with his behavior.

If he had the ability to make a rational choice, Ben would choose to look out the window with a neighborhood-watch disposition, like a proud and protective homeowner; leaning cautiously towards the glass as he pulls back the curtain with fingertips; trying to see the world without being seen. Thats how Ben would choose to keep watch over his home and loved ones. But he has no fingertips and, sadly, no ability to make rational choice. So, he barks. He barks suddenly and loudly making us all jump unexpectedly.

Oddly, human auto-response to surprise is anger. Immediate and intense. And even though I have the benefit of rational thought, and the ability to recognize my own behavior, I screech back at him without missing a beat. Then I feel bad for yelling. I wonder if my shouting annoys him. I wonder if it makes him feel worse about disappointing mama. I wonder if he knows why I bark.

I’ve been without much emotion throughout the divorce process. And I thought that was telling. Telling me that I had moved on long ago and that the years spent working on the marriage eventually led us here, to this place of separation. I thought I had very little to mourn anymore. I’ve been solid, strong, bountiful, happy. “Divorce looks good on you,” I was told. All signs to me that life’s path, though unpredictable, leads you if you follow. And yet, despite all the positives, I knew there was something missing in my unemotional demeanor. I seemed off somehow. Like I was forgetting something.

The papers are nearly ready to be signed now. And though I printed out the most recent draft, they sit on my desk untouched. I can’t bear to look at them. And when I try, my brain rearranges the words into sentences that dont make sense. I forget what I was fighting for in our last mediation. Something that was a really important addition to the finality of us.

Its no coincidence that my back pain has returned. That I am now, for two days straight, laying on the floor, hardly able to take my dogs outside. I have had to cancel my rush-rush schedule and soak in my pain. The body reminds us to feel when our brain pretends to forget. The doctors ask, “Did you do anything that led to the pain? Did you lift something too heavy or twist in an awkward way?” How can I be truthful? How can I say that I feel like I’ve been carrying too much weight, on my shoulders, for much of my life. But that I can’t name what exactly is so heavy? Or why I can’t seem to just put it down? How can I explain that my pain is my fault, and yet, it’s not? Do I tell them that I have twisted myself into roles, and jobs, and belief systems that, while well intentioned, have helped me find my way to here. To this burning ache, in my lower back. The same place that provided unbearable insight during two unmedicated childbirths. “Support my back!” I screamed at my doula. “My back is hurting the most!” In the end, oxygen was what I needed to work through the pain.

And now I am trying to come to terms with that heavy word. Divorce. Is it ugly just based on syllabic intonation, or does the meaning make it so? I’ve been trying on the word in conversations. “We are divorcing,” “I am in the process of divorce,” “I am a divorced mom working on raising my daughters to be true to themselves.” Somehow, that word always sounds ugly. Saying I’m divorced is like admitting I’m fat. Out loud. It brings feelings of shame and self blame. It’s a word that my childhood taught me to stuff away and talk around as if having a large vocabulary could make it better.

There are metaphysical reasons for why we each have personally specific reoccurring pain. When I investigated lower back pain I learned that it’s often sparked by the fear of lack of financial support, it’s the fear of your own survival that amplifies the pain.
Bam.
Yes.
The truth somehow hurts and heals all at once.

Today, on day 3 of pain, I woke up and finally listened.
I heard my body saying – “You will not work today. You will not have business as usual today. Today you will hurt.”
And I heard my brain say, “Write.” And I open my blog and begin spilling my words through my fingers.
And I looked at my calendar and saw that it is erev Rosh Hashanah, the Jewish holiday celebrating a new year ahead, new opportunities to do better, to be better, to choose to see more clearly, to recognize oneself and one’s blessings. This is a time of reflection, to recognize our failings and our strengths. To be sorry for pain you may have caused to others, to yourself. A time to embrace your pain in order to actually let it go.

So here I am. Flat on my aching back. Dogs at my side. Tears on my cheeks. Recognizing that it hurts more to run from the pain than it does to embrace it. And as I write, my phone rings, and I hear a dear friend invite me and my children to dinner for the holiday. And I say, yes please. And I remember the saying, “New beginnings are often disguised as painful endings.” And I recognize that they are actually one and the same.

Unexpected moments come, well,
unexpectedly.
You walk confidently, thinking your path is just a continuation of some other moment.
Peripherally though, something is amiss.
It takes a time-lapsed millisecond for your brain to notify your eyes.
You look
and recognize the familiar terrain is somehow unfamiliar.
There is a fog you can’t see.
But it smells dark.
Your heart ramps up to beat in triple time;
in the way you know is panic, but are sure is death.
The triggers hide in the shadows, laughing at you.
Begging to be caught and beaten down.
Like the child who defies with a smile.
The same child you admire as you punish.
And, in that moment, you realize
that the unexpected moments
have actually been your own expectations
the whole time.

I thought I had this mama thing down. Isn’t 12 years enough to get the hang of it? But I’m finding that I can never know enough. Once you feel you know something about parenting, the rules somehow get changed. The game goes into overtime. And I am left wondering what it is I need to know.

The goal now is to release my grip, just enough, to let go of knowing. Of needing to know. Of the thought that I truly know anything. I think its time to listen for a while. Be brave Mama and keep my heart open. Listen to my feelings. Listen to their words. Listen for their hearts to speak to me. Let my heart feel, so we can heal. Its up to Mama. “Tell Mama…”

There are rare moments in life when my title, Mama, feels too big to fill. This is that moment. Their eyes look to me with questions I cannot answer. And desires I can not fill. And safety I cannot assure. And predictions I can not promise. And despite the tunneled in struggles, I wouldn’t change my title for anything in the world.

All I can do is be true, to the best I know how. Without being too true. Isn’t this what parenting is? Teaching them about all there is to fear in the world, while simultaneously hoping they believe you when you say the world is a safe place? And yet, both truths are real.

I look around for guidance through this moment. But there are no answers. Because there is no real knowing. Ironically, I know this now. There is only now, and now, and now. On her best days, Mama leads with courage. For today my courage can be found in two words, “Tell Mama…”

All wrapped up into one petite package.
I’m a mother.
A woman.
Sister.
Daughter.
Friend.
Aunt.
Teacher.
Lover. All these descriptors are never changing. I am. All these things. But, am I a wife? When I say “we are separated” have I already lost this title? When do we stop being what we are?

There’s no mercy in a live wireNo rest in freedom at all.

Am I me, whoever that is, separate from 22 years, 2 children, 10 nieces and nephews, 5 cats, 11 years of parenting, 4 graduations, and 6 homes? Maybe its easy. Maybe I’m the old me. Maybe I’m the new me. Maybe there is no me at all.

Of the choices we are given it’s no choice at all.The proof is in the fireYou touch before it moves away.But you must always know how long to stay and when to go.

When change is all thats left to count on and talking becomes just stupid words of pride
It can take a while to understand…the beauty of just letting go.I’m gonna let me fly.

~jrb

PRESS PLAY:

Let Him Fly, Patty Griffin
Ain’t no talkin to this man
Ain’t no pretty other side
Ain’t no way to understand the stupid words of pride
It would take an acrobat, and I already tried all that so
I’m gonna let him fly
Things can move at such a pace
The second hand just waved goodbye
You know the light has left his face
But you can’t recall just where or why
So there was really nothing to it
I just went and cut right through it
I said I’m gonna let him flyThere’s no mercy in a live wire
No rest at all in freedom
Of the choices we are given it’s no choice at all
The proof is in the fire
You touch before it moves away
But you must always know how long to stay and when to go

And there ain’t no talkin to this man
He’s been tryin to tell me so
It took awhile to understand the beauty of just letting go
Cause it would take an acrobat, I already tried all that
I’m gonna let him fly
I’m gonna let him fly
I’m gonna let him fly